Green and Purple to Set You Alight
by Listening to trees
Summary: In a Gotham where the Court of Owls was bolder and stronger, a bleached man did not wake up in the ditches of Ace Chemicals alone. That said, some people do not stop laughing just because you plug them up with drugs and cut out their tongue. (Or the Talon!Joker AU nobody asked for.)


He sleeps. A lot. It's all part and parcel of the job. (Sleeping on the job, heh heh.) But given the absence of pay (the _slave drivers_) and the Damocles sword of very permanent termination, he figured that's only fair.

.

Sometimes (most of the time), he dreamed. He hasn't danced as much with Gotham since their, uh, _expansion_, not as before, but his memories always threw up sharp, shaaaaarp precise mocks of those buildings in his sleep. Even if he forgets all of himself (and maybe he had, already), he'll never lose the horror-muted light of Gotham's stars or the scrub of her gravel against his skin.

.

(Except, he had never felt her gravel against his skin. Nor much of the wind on his face. And is that a satin waistcoat wrapped around his ribs? He thinks he'd buy one if he could. In a stylish, _ab-sol-lutely _fab-yoo-lous colour; nothing like the unrelieved, constricting black the retarded fashion sense of his employers have forced upon him.)

.

(Oh, the things one had to endure for being too pretty.)

.

Sometimes he remembered that the Gothams he dreams of are not his own: Here, there are no clowns, no green-and-purple. (No laughter.) Only one tar-dark Bat, lonely under the sky amidst his pretty birds and the owls, owls, _owls._

_._

(How dreadfully _boring._)

.

Maybe out there, somewhere in this city, lay a cloud of spore-green hair under one bird's mask. Maybe a too-wide slash of a mouth, if air currents and wild movements brought the right flutters to his veil. Maybe there were a pair of white hands fluttering with knives, like silver butterflies, praying for the leading grasp of a partner.

.

But the Bat did not see. The Bat did not know.

…

The way to make music, he believed, is to introduce the most brilliant reds to the silent white walls.

.

But don't sing too loudly, or jealousy will cling to you. Already the Court of Owls have threatened to serve him the pink slip, but he knows they won't. Not yet. It took ten years and then some to make a Talon, with a few dollies getting thrown out along the way, and even then the birth of prima donna always needed a little something …special. So he remained their wild card, the sharpest dagger in their collection, and he will remain so until the animal instincts and suicidal creativity he possesses stop being in demand.

.

(Not that he had any intention of exiting gracefully. Ever. After all, wasn't it the right of a fading starlet to throw around a few tantrums? Especially when the job came with such a _terrible_ retirement package.)

.

(And if his retirement plans involved having more than just his employers resituated somewhere six feet deep… well no one ever called _him_ in when they wanted to minimise casualties.)

…

It took almost more effort than it was worth to find a calling card of his own. Only the Bat's recent stirring of the entire Court had offered him the necessary distraction to pull it off, so that the next time they fought, he could discretely let slip the purple flower pinned to the inside of his sleeve. The fact it damn near stopped the Batman in his tracks to pull up his cowl against an expected attack was, of course, always a welcome bonus. But no, it was just a silly little purple flower, "100% organic!" and harmless. He thought of Batman's face at the truth after hours of cautious handling and testing, and he could almost _cry_ from the ensuing (silent) fits of giggles.

…

Batman never bothered to remember each specific individual among the Talons. Why would he? They were, according to all his (considerable) sources, either reanimated dead or brainwashed soldiers to a one since early childhood, beyond saving except perhaps by extensive years in Arkham. By all rights, the only thing that should matter with the Talons were his analysis to their one uniform (but no less formidable) fighting style and their numbers.

.

Except there is this Talon. This single Talon, with something more rabid to his crouch and blows compared to the dignified grace of other Talons, who so audaciously left him …a flower. And it was just a flower, which was very likely left outside of the Court's orders. And doesn't that suggest there was personhood to this Talon? The ability to defy, to be unique, perhaps even pull off a practical _joke?_

_._

Batman sat before his computers and wondered. If this Talon truly had the marks of an individual, then what other living, breathing Talons yet to succumb entirely to dehumanisation had he missed?

…

They had revived him too late. Already he can hear the clashing, the crumbling, the screeches that suggested the Court's deafening, final fall. He growled to himself. The Bat's grandest move, his opus magnum, and he was only invited to the ending ceremony. How _cruel._

_._

(Some heads were going to roll for this. Even if all he could kill now was some paltry civilian. Beggars couldn't be choosers.)

.

But oh, how wonderful were the Bat, his Bat's profile and controlled prowess! How magnificent the destruction! And he considered himself the agent of law and order instead of Mother Chaos? W-haaaaat a big_ joke! Ha! Ha! Ha!_ He let out a childish cackle, causing the Batman to whip his head around and stare at him. That's when the Talon (not _Talon_) realised that, in his haste to head towards the action, he had left his cryochamber unmasked. Oh. _Oh._

_._

The Batman finally sees him now.

.

He _sees._

_._

Time to let all his feathers and knives and (silent) laughter into the light. The Talon-not-Talon wordlessly _crowed._

…

_With green and purple to set you alight,_

_And red to baptise your skin._

_With laughter as your prayers and chaos your religion–_

_Love is your gravest sin._


End file.
